


Quebec Tango, On The

by harper_m



Series: Sorties [1]
Category: Covert Affairs
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-24
Updated: 2010-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harper_m/pseuds/harper_m
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Annie’s not fucking Joan to advance her career.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quebec Tango, On The

Annie realizes that the least complicated relationship in her life shouldn’t be the one where she’s fucking her boss in secret, in closets and at the office and any other public place that offers a modicum of privacy. It’s ill advised for a number of reasons; most notably because she’s fucking her boss because she wants to fuck her and not because she wants to advance her career. At the Agency, the latter is undoubtedly a bigger sin.

Sometimes she thinks Joan is engaged in a preemptive strike instead of an affair, and Annie occasionally wonders if Joan’s decided that their time together is simply an inventive approach to personnel management as opposed to anything personal. Annie doesn’t have any interest in Joan’s husband Arthur, but she can imagine that Joan’s had to field off encroachments of that nature before. Power is an aphrodisiac and Washington’s filled with acolytes; Arthur has both in spades. The more immediate threat is Jai, and though Annie doubts that Joan has any designs on him herself, it’s possible that Joan sees value in thwarting any possible intra-team romance by usurping all of the time and energy Annie might have to put into it. If Annie considered herself anything of a threat, she’d think Joan was cementing her place as alpha female of the pack. If she bought into psychoanalysis, she might think something more.

Then again, it could be that Joan’s motivations are simpler. It could simply be that Joan is also fucking Annie just because she wants to fuck her.

Annie’s wholesome, corn-fed exterior makes people trust her when they shouldn’t. It leads them to assume certain things about her – that she’s perky and hardworking, with a resume that touches on all of the extracurriculars they tout in undergrad as keys to getting ahead. That she probably keeps up with football because she likes being one of those girls who can drink beers with the guys for reasons that border dangerously on ~I’ve just never been able to be friends with girls~ territory. That she has a good cry over Oprah’s book club recommendations, shops at Ann Taylor Loft, and gets sucked into Lifetime movies despite herself. That she’ll happily settle into the married life once she meets Mr. Right, because she has the kind of face that’s destined for professional family photos taken at the beach, with a husband to her right and two tow-headed children posed playfully in front of them, peering over the grass or playing with abandoned conch shells. That she’ll lead a perfectly lovely, if a touch boring, life.

In another life, she could easily have been what she seems to be.

In this life, she closes the door behind her and carefully engages the lock. On the other side of the glass is an abandoned interrogation room. It’s a room for the people who are watched, for the people whose mistakes and missteps are on display.

Joan’s already there waiting on her, wearing her favorite dress. It’s the one that looks as if it’s come straight from Jackie Kennedy’s closet, skin tight and black, and Annie knows from experience that rucking it up over Joan’s hips will be a collaborative effort. She wonders if she can talk Joan out of it instead.

It turns out she doesn’t even have to try. Joan preempts her, smiling as she turns and pulls aside her long, blonde ponytail to bare the nape of her neck. “I’m having dinner with Arthur,” she says, and waits for Annie to unzip her – no wrinkles allowed today.

It’s oddly intimate, Annie thinks, as she steps in close behind Joan and slowly pulls down the tab on the zipper. It gives the false sense that Joan is displaying vulnerability, because there’s something unnatural in their world in leaving something so delicate as the neck unguarded, but Annie’s not under any illusions as to the balance of power in their relationship.

Still, she presses a soft kiss to the curve of Joan’s neck, just because she can. Her thumb is already wiping away the trace of lipstick when Joan directs a warning scowl over her shoulder.

When Annie sees what Joan has on underneath her conservative dress, she swallows hard. The lingerie is black mesh and barely there, with panties that tie on each side at the apex of her thighs. With the black stilettos she’s still wearing, Joan looks both icy and unreachable and infinitely accessible.

Joan leans back against a long, narrow table pressed up against the side wall. Her hands are curled around the edge of it, and her legs are crossed at the ankle. She looks expectant and unconcerned all at once; she’s impossible to please and waiting to be impressed.

Annie’s in standard issue rookie Agency gear, a black skirt suit and white button down. Joan gives her no indication, and so she’s left with the choice of whether or not to remove it. She doesn’t want to seem presumptuous – it’s not that kind of relationship. And so, she simply shrugs off her jacket, flips it inside out so that the lining is on the outside, folds it in half and then in half again, and places it like an offering at Joan’s feet.

She can touch but she can’t muss, and Joan has never given her the impression that she wants Annie to dawdle. So, she kicks out of her heels, flexes her toes against the rough industrial carpet, and steps in close. There’s no kissing – never at work, and absolutely never when Joan mentions Arthur. It forces her to improvise; she runs her nose along the long line of Joan’s neck. She risks the light flick of a tongue against Joan’s ear and follows it up with a warm, wanting breath. Her hands trace along Joan’s sides. They brush over her breasts and follow the curve of her spine.

She’s a ghost.

Joan makes an impatient noise. Annie’s tarried too long but she refuses to acquiesce immediately. Instead, she slides down to Joan’s chest. She presses her lips against Joan’s breastbone, the touch light enough to be mistaken, as her hands wrap around ribs. Annie’s thumbs brush against the side of Joan’s breasts; it’s a feather-light touch, and whether Joan notices or not, she’s proud of the way she keeps her movements symmetrical. Her cheek rests against Joan’s belly as her hands coast over Joan’s hips, and it’s only then they break rank. She pushes her luck again, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the skin just above the black tease of Joan’s underwear as her fingers undo the bow at each hip and the cloth falls to scrap.

The folded jacket under her knees softens the unforgiving hardness of the floor as she settles in. Joan’s still got her legs crossed at the ankle, forcing Annie to look up at her with a winsome smile.

As if pleased, Joan smiles in return.

Joan straightens slowly. She plants one foot and then the other, and suddenly she’s towering over Annie. She cocks an eyebrow, a silent ‘Well?’, and Annie’s smile deepens.

Annie places a hand on Joan’s belly, fingers splayed. It’s the most daring she’s been yet this afternoon. She presses; after a moment, Joan relents. She allows herself to be pushed back until she feels the edge of the table dig into her skin.

It isn’t that she’d be bad at following directions. It’s that Joan doesn’t need them.

She shifts so that her weight is resting against the table and her back is resting against the wall, and Annie’s smile transforms into a lopsided grin. She puts both hands on one of Joan’s knees and slides them upward. Joan follows the movement, momentarily giving Annie leeway, and Annie ducks under Joan’s now raised thigh. Joan’s stiletto slips against her back as she eases an arm under Joan’s other thigh and brings it up to her shoulder so that she’s enclosed. Trapped.

Situated, Annie takes time to savor the moment. She closes her eyes, breathes in deeply, and presses the tips of her short nails into Joan’s skin. She draws the moment out as long as she dares, until she feels the first hint of restless movement.

When she feels it, she closes the distance.

The sound Joan makes when Annie’s tongue meets flesh is intoxicating. It’s in the way she takes a breath and holds it. In the way she continues to hold it until she remembers she needs to breathe, and when she does, her exhale is almost a whimper.

It prompts Annie to try harder.

Annie isn’t allowed to muss, but Joan’s under no such obligation. Her fingers dig into Annie’s hair and pull her closer. It draws a moan from Annie and, in a reaction so instinctive she can’t stifle it, she flexes her nails into the small of Joan’s back in a move she’s sure is strictly verboten. She’s pressing hard enough to leave marks, hard enough to bite if Joan’s hiss can be believed, and even the subsequent low growl of warning Joan directs her way isn’t enough to make her unclench her fingers.

The distant sound of footsteps reaches them from the hall as someone heads past to another destination. Were the footsteps to stop, at least the door is locked. It should be enough to deter most anyone who might try it, or would be, if they were at some place other than CIA headquarters where locked doors are simply an invitation for most employees. It brings to Annie’s mind the image of how they’d look if caught: Joan in her bra and heels, legs wrapped around Annie’s shoulders and hand on the back of Annie’s head, pressing her in even closer. It would be worse for her, senior agent with a subordinate on her knees in front of her, but still the time would come when Annie would have to pull away. When she’d have to stand, discreetly wipe her mouth, do her best to shield Joan’s body with hers, and weather the fallout.

She wonders if there’s something about being a secret operative that makes the notion of getting caught so thrilling. If so, the way Joan’s fingers tighten even tighter in her hair makes her think she’s not alone in it.

Given the option, Annie would prefer to take her time. This is one of the parts she appreciates most, when she’s surrounded by the taste and scent of Joan, and when she can control the jerk and wriggle of the other woman’s body by changing the angle or firmness of her tongue’s strokes or through the judicious application of teeth or suction. She measures and catalogues each response – a scrape of the teeth here, and Joan’s legs flex against her, heels digging into her back. The hard press of her tongue there, and Joan’s back arches under her touch. But then, better still is when all of those things come together. When Joan gives out a sharp cry and bucks against her, and Annie can taste Joan’s satisfaction like a blessing on her tongue.

She gives Joan a moment to recover before pulling back with a teasing nip to an inner thigh. Joan’s legs slide from her shoulders. Her chest is still heaving, and when Annie reaches up to draw a hand over her mouth, Joan stops her with a breathless, “Wait.”

Taken by surprise, Annie does.

Joan nods shortly. “Stand up.”

Annie knows it’ll take Joan less than a minute to pull herself together. She’ll blot away the few drops of sweat dampening her hairline, use a fingertip to smooth her makeup, and pull her dress into place. For the moment, though, she looks deliciously wanton. Her legs are splayed carelessly, her skin is glistening, and her cheeks are pink.

Annie has to forcibly repress the urge to kiss her.

Instead, as she scoops up her jacket and moves to stand, Annie tucks Joan’s panties into an inner pocket. The material, scant as it is, doesn’t even make a bulge, but when Joan takes the jacket from her, she’s sure she’s been discovered. She’s already blushing at the implication of it when Joan lays the jacket to her left and pulls Annie to her.

“I’m having dinner with Arthur,” she repeats, voice low. Her eyes are focused intently on Annie’s with the same sort of intensity she displays when delivering mission parameters. Annie nearly jumps when she feels her shirttails being tugged deliberately from her skirt. She’d been prepared to be sent on her way, the walk through the office and out to her car a yawning trek stretching out before her. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d made it, conscious each step of how she’d been left wet and aching, and sure anyone looking at her would be able to see the same. Instead, this time Joan’s sliding down the side zip on her skirt and pushing it down over her hips.

She holds out her hand as Annie slips the skirt off, and takes it when offered.

Joan’s smile is wicked. “You’ll have to handle this on your own.”

It takes a full five seconds for Annie to decipher what that means. In the interim, Joan’s managed to unbutton the row of buttons down the front of her crisp white button-down.

Shocked, she opens her mouth to speak but finds she can’t.

Joan’s smile sharpens. “Unless you don’t think you’re up to the task.”

Annie can’t help but rise to the challenge. She remembers Joan’s multiple warnings about her dinner with Arthur and resolves to give her a memory of their afternoon together that will be hard to replace with steak and wine.

She sinks down to the floor again. Her shirt flutters, giving Joan a brief glimpse of the matching set of pearl gray underwear she has underneath, but only for a moment. The carpet is scratchy beneath her; her legs are bent at the knees and spread slightly, soles of her feet flat. She moves slowly and deliberately, unbuttoning the buttons on the cuff of her right sleeve and rolling the material halfway up her forearm. She gives the cuff a tug, straightening it, and then puts her left hand behind her for support.

Their time is growing short, and there’s a hint of tension in the air between them. This time, she doesn’t chance drawing things out. Instead, she sucks two fingers into her mouth and then slips her hand under the waistband of her panties.

She’s almost surprised at how wet she is, though she shouldn’t be. It’s like this every time with Joan, the combination of person and circumstances blending together perfectly. Still, her head drops forward as she hisses in a breath. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, hiding her face, and her fingers begin to move.

Joan breath catches in her throat. It’s a play in shadows and mystery, and there’s more of Annie she can’t see than there is of her she can. Through the fall of Annie’s shirt, she can see a hint of muscled abdomen halfway hidden behind the slant of her forearm. For a moment, she focuses her attention there, on the way Annie’s wrist rolls and shifts. Her hand is obscured beneath gray silk, leaving Joan with only the impression of movement and forcing her to imagine what’s happening beneath. Her fingers grip on to the edge of the table and flex. She has to hold herself back from moving, from pushing Annie onto her back and taking over.

She doesn’t move, though. She can’t, not when Annie looks up at her and bites down hard on her lower lip. Her expression is a mix of teasing and pleading, as if she’s asking Joan for permission and telling her she doesn’t have the right to give it all at once. And then her eyes flutter closed and she moans. Her shoulders jump and she curls in on herself, and Joan wants nothing more than for Annie to open her eyes. When she does, upper body undulating as if riding out the waves of her pleasure, it’s somehow more than Joan expected.

Annie’s watching her with a half-closed, sultry gaze, and the expression in her eyes promises Joan that, as good as that was, things can only get better.

Annie takes a moment to recover before slowly slipping her hand out of her panties. Joan tracks the movement with hawk-like intensity, and when Annie brings her fingers to her mouth again, mirroring the movement she’d made only minutes before, it’s Joan who shudders. It’s Joan who imagines herself pulling Annie’s fingers away and into her own mouth, of tasting Annie the way she’s just tasted herself. Of kissing Annie, and tasting the two of them together.

The moment comes to an end. It has to, because the real world is waiting on the other side of a locked door, and Joan’s got a dinner date to keep. So, she pulls on her dress and uses the two-way mirror to touch up her make-up, but not before Annie catches sight of eight perfectly semi-circular nail marks along the curve of her spine. It’s enough to bring a satisfied smile to her face as Joan tames her bangs into order and wipes away a smudge of lipstick that’s somehow gone astray. Beside her, Annie buttons up the line of buttons on her shirt and tucks the tail ends into her skirt. Her hair is a ruffled mess, and there’s little for it other than to pull it back in a ponytail. Her make-up is similarly irreparable, but she does the best she can.

“You should go,” she says, still unable to repress her smile, the words the first to break the silence between them in some time. “I’m sure Arthur’s waiting.”

Joan turns to face her, and for a moment, Annie thinks she’s going to press her up against the glass and kiss her senseless. In the end, she instead reaches forward slowly and traces her thumb over Annie’s lips. Annie watches, transfixed, as Joan brings the pad of her thumb to own her lips and licks it, as her eyes close and she sighs.

“Until tomorrow,” Joan says, her voice more throaty than usual.

Annie reaches down and slips on her jacket, pulling up on the collar of her button-down and smoothing down the lapels. She imagines more than feels the little scrap of fabric she has hidden away in her pocket.

“Until tomorrow,” she echoes, as Joan turns the lock on the door and steps back into the hallway. Annie places her hand lightly on the small of Joan’s back as they step through the doorway, imagining those perfect semi-circles once again. A few steps later, she drops her hand and follows.


End file.
